He adjusted his grip on my suitcase. “Oh, and the team unanimously voted to adopt your preferred schedule—no morning meetings before nine, and absolutely no evening work.”
I pressed a hand to my sternum. These people, who’d never met me, had tried hard to anticipate my needs better than James ever had in four years of marriage.
At security, Eric handed me a stack of postcards—the Alps glittering under cheap gloss. “For writing home,” he said with an encouraging nod.
The trash bin swallowed them whole.
Eric blinked. “No one to write to?”
I glanced back at the terminal windows, where the city skyline stood sharp against the dawn. Somewhere out there, James was probably reviewing Vicky’s latest ultrasound photos over breakfast, her diamond-crusted hand resting on his arm.
“Not anymore,” I said, turning toward the gate.
The plane rumbled to life beneath us. Eric prattled about Zurich’s farmer’s markets—”The peaches in August! You’ll think you’ve tasted sunlight!”—while I pressed a hand to the window.
Goodbye to photos where only one of us smiled.
Goodbye to the mansion that never felt like home.
Goodbye, James.
